A Farmland Acquaintance

When Dee invited me over to her village in Manjapra, Kerala, I was thrilled. I've always been biased towards this South Indian state and was enchanted by the idea of staying in a farmhouse.

The village turned out to be a bunch of quaint houses nestled together in riot of bright colours. At a grocery shop, two men argued agitatedly in Malayalam about the ongoing FIFA World Cup. Dee's house was a two-storeyed beauty, furnished with home-grown jackfruit and teak wood. The backyard was a sight to behold. A pile of nutmeg sat prettily on a plate, waiting to be peeled. Ducks waddled around pleasantly and the pregnant cow mooed at me morosely from a corner. Paddy fields stretched out before me, interspersed with banana, tapioca and coconut plantations. Now we know where all the green goes, I thought to myself. Above the cowshed hung a crow wing, which is believed to ward off evil spirits. I was also shown the famous hole in the window created by Dee's father who shot at a bird through the closed glass. Her family was intrigued by my vegetarianism. Surely you eat fish? Dee's father asked. I offered to make rasam, lentil soup, and was given an earthern pot and freshly picked spices. Eggs, tapioca, rice, fish and chicken—everything was served fresh off the farm.

Night falls early here and only the local toddy shops remain open. The dogs are brought into the kennels because they have been creating havoc during their nocturnal expeditions. What kind of self-respecting dog eats frogs?asked Dee. We slept on the top floor, leaving the enormous windows open, which welcomed all creatures great and small.

Life there was very different from the city life I had been exposed to. It possessed an endearing simplicity in thought and action. Urbanisation was far away, the air was pure, and you could drink water straight from the spring. My visit to this little-known hamlet, coupled with the hospitality I experienced, contributed to the growing panorama of my view of the world.